


Actions and Consequences.

by thinkpink20



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:46:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He needs to know when it started, so he approaches the both of them. (George's POV.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Actions and Consequences.

He needs to know when it started, so he approaches the both of them. Paul, after considering a few seconds says, "In Hamburg." John, however, averts his eyes and grumbles, "Woolton fuckin' village fete."

It doesn't help George much at all. He is sure to ask them separately, which is what he does sometimes when he wants a balanced view on something, gets Paul's opinion and then John's opinion and finds an average somewhere in the middle; it is like both ends of the spectrum, and he always tries to find his own truth somewhere in the middle of theirs. He's been doing it since he was sixteen.

Still, these answers don't give him much help. He had thought that maybe if he knew, it would quieten the roaring in his head whenever he thinks about it (all the time) but it doesn't. So he goes on asking questions, hoping to make it feel less like he has been entirely stupid for not noticing.

He goes to John and Ringo's hotel room one morning; assumes that as it was only he and Ringo at breakfast and that Paul isn't still in his bed, they must both be in there. He's right.

"How did it start?" he asks.

Paul is standing at the mirror beside the bed, using the tiny hairdryer that used to be Cynthia's but John adopted somewhere along the line. John is sitting on the bed beside him amongst the mess of slept-in sheets, wearing nothing but a towel and with wet hair dripping onto his shoulders. He is doing the crossword, trying not to notice George is there.

"What?!" Paul shouts, over the noise of the hairdryer. He stops it, frowns at George with what George used to think of as an honest smile. He isn't so sure anymore.

"How did it start?"

By now Ringo has joined them, pottering about by his own bed, picking up clothes and magazines. The atmosphere chills as soon as George speaks and he sees John still almost imperceptibly; imagines that behind those thick black glasses, the shutters have come down over his eyes.

"Piss off, George," John mutters, and immediately Paul hits him on the arm. "Ow!" he says, with far more conviction than a touch like that could have caused. 

It clicks somewhere in George's head that they both have wet hair, were probably in the shower together before he walked in here.

He feels sick at the unexpected wave of arousal just below his navel.

"It just... happened, George," Paul says, with the sort of tone a parent would use when explaining how your pet rabbit died; conciliatory, sad, sorry. 

"I know that," George says, surprised at the amount of anger in his voice. "But I mean _how_ did it start? _Who_ started it?"

Paul has his mouth open ready to speak when John flings the paper and the half-done crossword down on the bed and looks up, eyes hard. 

"We _fucked,_ George," he says, his tone very clear. "Sex. It's an act you might know about if you didn't spend so much time sticking your nose into other people's business."

Behind him, George feels Ringo stop packing up his things. They're suddenly all on high alert, waiting for something to happen. George doesn't look away from John, knows that's how you lose an argument with him, show him your belly and he'll scratch it raw.

"Right under our noses all this time? Did you think we were thick and we just wouldn't notice?"

"Everyone else _did_ notice," John tells him, "Ringo's known for ages, haven't you, Ringo? Turns out _you're_ the only thick one here, George."

A detached part of his brain vaguely wonders why he'd ever thought he could have an enlightening conversation with the King of the Cutting Remark. But he's dragged unceremoniously back to the real world by Paul's hand reaching out to John's shoulder. "Johnny..." he says to restrain him, quietly, intimately, in a voice George has never heard him use before.

It's obviously meant to bring about peace, but instead it just makes George feel worse. Out of nowhere he suddenly feels like he might be sick, doesn't want to throw up in front of them so he turns and gets out of there as fast as he can.

~~~~~

They make the next stop on their tour (Brighton? Bournemouth? Somewhere beginning with B) and George finds Ringo's suitcase on the bed next to his when he gets to his room, not Paul's. He steps into the bathroom, finds Ringo washing his hands and just looks at him with a question on his face.

"No point in them not sharing now everyone knows, is there?" Ringo asks. He is being careful to be extra-neutral. It makes George feel like John when he first met him, like a ticking time bomb.

He goes away, calmly back to his bed, sorts through his things and tries not to feel hurt.

Later on, in the middle of the night after the show and when the rest of the world is asleep, George finds himself sitting in the uncomfortable hotel chair, looking out of the window. It's coming on for Christmas and all the lights are up along the prom, garish and stark.

"Bloody hell, George."

He turns around to find Ringo, hair all askew and face soft from sleep, squinting at him through the darkness. "Go back to bed, mate, you'll be like a wet dishrag in the morning."

"Can't sleep," George says. Doesn't know how else to explain himself, though he'd actually quite like to. They don't often get down and have real 'chats'; that's woman's stuff. 

There is a long silence then Ringo sits up fully, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "I think it was John who made the move," he says quietly, not quite making eye contact. "That's the impression I get, anyway. Paul was a bit surprised, then started wondering why he hadn't thought of it years ago."

George realises he is holding his breath, scared that Ringo will suddenly stop.

"When Brian found out there was hell; remember that weird flit he did to Scotland for two weeks? Well, that was because he caught them. I thought he was going to dump us all."

A shiver runs through him - Brian's trip to Scotland was months and months ago. "What did he say?" George asks, mildly shocked that he can still speak.

"Didn't _say_ anything," Ringo told him around a yawn. "He just sort of... glared. And then looked sad, like he was about to cry every time someone bumped into him. Paul got the silent treatment, Mal started calling him 'the other woman' which amused John no end, of course."

George doesn't even bother trying to return Ringo's smile at this.

"Was I stupid for not noticing?" 

He wants to ask, 'Why am I always the last to know?' But even he can hear how pathetic that sounds in his head.

"Na, mate. They weren't flaunting it, just..."

"Just what?"

Ringo shrugged. "Just being themselves. They've always been this close, haven't they? Just weren't having the sex before now."

George leaves it a long time before he speaks again and when he does, Ringo is already lying down again. "Does Cyn know?"

"Christ, no."

George thinks briefly of telling her, imagines her red, blotchy, crying face and how scared they would both be if this started to get beyond their little 'Beatle circle'. It's easy to be cocky when you're calling your mate 'thick' for not knowing but nowhere near as funny when you're hauled through the newspapers for buggery.

But of course he never would. And not just because they're 'The Beatles'. He doesn't have it in him.

So he goes back to bed, tries to get some sleep.

~~~~~

The atmosphere is quiet, overly-polite. Paul is giving him his biggest press smile every time he sees him and John just simply avoids him, more of a coward than any of them would ever admit. 

He tries not to ask any more questions, he really does, but...

"How obvious was it?" 

"What?" Paul asks, clearly momentarily having forgotten. George wishes _he_ could forget.

"Your relationship - how obvious was it?"

Paul has the good grace to blush. "Oh. Not - not very. We aren't exactly shouting it from the rooftops, mate."

After an uncomfortable silence, George goes on. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He finds it odd that Paul looks surprised. "Tell you? We never - we never told anyone, people just sort of... guessed, found out. Why would I - why would we tell you?"

"Oh, I don't know," George says dryly, "Common decency?"

Paul mistakes him. "This isn't - I'm not - We're not _queer,_ George. It's just... me and John."

"Seems pretty queer to me."

"I didn't..." Paul suddenly frowns. "You think I'd _chose_ this? Sneaking around like Brian, lying to my family, risking my neck? This isn't a change of lifestyle, George, it's just... me and John."

George wonders why he keeps saying that, because he has absolutely no idea what 'just me and John' explains. 

Or maybe it explains everything, and George just doesn't quite understand that yet. "When Ringo found out, why didn't you get him to tell me?"

Paul actually _laughs._ It's an odd sound and George realises that's because no one has laughed around here in days. "What, just give him the wink? 'Don't suppose you could tell George I'm letting John bugger me, could you mate?'"

George can't help but laugh at this too, and they share a brief moment of togetherness. But even before the noise of their laughter has died away, George is feeling empty again, the horrible hollow feeling that he has been living with since his world shattered the previous week when someone made some comment (that he can't even remember now) and no one even tried to deny it. He feels scooped out, like someone took his innards and replaced them with snakes.

And if the snakes are jealous snakes, George refuses to admit this to himself.

The question he really wants to ask doesn't make it out of his mouth though, because the next thing the room is flooded with staff and tour promoters and the odd journalist here and there, ready for the next round of interviews. He doubts really anyway, that he would have had the bravery to actually say to Paul, 'Are you in love with each other?'

~~~~~

They've been left alone on the tour bus after Brian took them all aside post-show and simply said, "Whatever it is, boys, sort it out." It was enough to let them all know that it was clearly effecting their playing and then when they'd got back to the bus, Paul had nodded at Ringo and they'd moved towards the door.

"'Or 'ey, Paul," John had whined, obviously not feeling it was fair to be left alone to do this job, but Paul merely shrugged. And kicked John's foot slightly, which George suspected he was not meant to see. It was like the hand on the shoulder from the other day, oddly intimate and caused a feeling to curl low in his belly. He wonders whether they had always touched each other like this and it is only now that he _knows_ it's sexual that he sees it that way. 

But what he knows for definite is that when they connect - even when they _look_ at each other, he feels something raise it's head inside him. He isn't sure if it's anger or shame or embarrassment or confusion or _want,_ but he knows it's there. And if it's jealousy then he doesn't know if it's because he wants to be one of them or if he simply wants _that_ for himself. Maybe not _them,_ but the idea of a friendship that goes so deep there aren't any lines anymore, something that transcends all the usual ways to be close to somebody.

Perhaps he's just lonely.

When Paul and Ringo are gone, John looks very pointedly out of the window, whistles, taps his feet, darts his eyes quickly to the door. George knows he doesn't deal well with confrontation, but this suddenly seems insane. How does Cyn put up with this?

How does _Paul_ put up with this?

He decides to go with the same question he asked Paul. Maybe he can find an average, thinks maybe that system might have stopped working though, because clearly they're closer than he ever imagined.

"How obvious was it?"

John immediately stops whistling, looks at him. He doesn't have his glasses so he squints. "You want to know just how daft you were for not noticing?"

George nods.

"Really fucking obvious," John says. "Like an elephant in the room, like Brian's little 'friends' trailing round after him, like the big bloody nose on Ringo's face."

That's the thing with John - he ignores you and you so desperately want him to speak but then when he does, you wish he was mute again.

George strengthens his nerve, opens his mouth. "Are you in love with him?"

"Yes."

The fact that John doesn't even wait a heartbeat to answer that one hits George slightly like a freight train. 

"Is he... Is he in love with you?"

John shrugs. "Don't know, don't think so."

"Fuck," George says, slightly stunned. 

"Yeah," John replies, and his smile is bitter and twisted and sad. 

The snakes inside George are suddenly asleep but he knows, deep down, that this is John and that John doesn't believe _anyone_ loves him, so that's not really an accurate answer. He still doubts Cynthia; lovable, dutiful, dedicated Cynthia who takes every last bit of his shit without a word and still worships the ground he walks on. Paul could write it on a banner and hold it aloft at a concert and _sing_ about it and John probably still wouldn't get the message.

"Thanks for telling me, anyway."

John doesn't mistake the tone on that one. "What, you want a running commentary? A detailed inventory of our business? Right, well last night I got down on my knees and - "

"Alright!" George shouts, "Alright, I get it."

John looks smug. George would return the smile now that the ice has clearly broken but he is too busy trying not to touch that feeling inside him that wanted John to actually go on. 

~~~~~

It is roughly four nights later (could be five, could be twenty; time moves differently when you're constantly moving about, repeating the same songs and same interviews in different towns) when George finds them.

The hotel has given them a suite; one main living space with a room either side and connecting doors. It is a bit luxurious, more than they're used to even now and each room has twin beds, as though it was designed exactly for their needs. It's a rare two-night stop over and on the first afternoon George had spotted that the two singles in John and Paul's room had been pushed together, stark indents in the carpet reminding that one bed was out of place. He'd tried not to think about it, tried not to _imagine_ it.

No imagination needed now though, as he stands at the door connecting his and Ringo's room with the living area. Ringo is asleep in one of the beds behind him, snoring loud enough to wake the dead and George is just _stock still_ in the open crack of the doorway, empty glass in hand he was planning to fill with whiskey from the bottle they'd all been sharing earlier.

John and Paul are kissing.

And not just kissing, not just lovers lying around long after they should have gone to bed, they are _really_ kissing. Sprawled out on the sofa, Paul has his legs spread in a way that embarrasses George to look at, it's so alien. Not just one of his best friends lying like that, but _anyone_ lying like that. He'd thought that after all those trips to Hamburg he'd become desensitized to sex, but this was strange, different. It elicited something in George that none of those tarts had, none of the women who sat in the windows and invited you in.

George feels desire, yes, but something else too. He isn't sure if he wants to be John or Paul or neither of them.

He watches, fascinated and yet also strangely frightened as John's hand moves carefully, _knowingly_ over the crotch of Paul's flimsy pyjama bottoms, palming him, pressure on just the right spots, never breaking their kiss. The position looks uncomfortable, but maybe that just adds to the eroticism of it.

George has been so busy _looking_ that he hasn't been _hearing._ When he listens he realises that one of them is groaning quietly into their kiss. He thinks it's John, but if the hand gripped around John's thigh is anything to go by, maybe it's Paul. He doesn't know if he'd be able to keep quiet in that situation himself, then hears Paul mumble something that ends with a sharp gasp as John moves to bite down on his neck. 

"Jesus," Paul says, and though it is quiet it is as sharp as cut glass and somehow crosses the room to where George is standing. Paul looks out of it - they both do - but it's not drugs, or even the three quarter bottle of whiskey, it's something else. Something Georges remembers, but hasn't felt quite like _that_ in a long time.

It strikes him that he's almost waiting for some clever remark from John ('Yeah, but you can call me Lennon') but instead what he gets is another wet, open mouthed kiss, something that leaves nothing to the imagination and then Paul is pulling John closer to him, hand in his hair.

After a moment, John says, in a voice quite unlike his own, "Time for bed." (In years to come, George will flinch when John first sings Norwegian Wood to them all).

They untangle themselves from the mess of limbs on the sofa and stand, John steadying Paul briefly before kissing him again, once, chaste on the mouth. Paul looks like he doesn't know what _year_ it is, never mind what day. And he is _pawing_ at John's clothes, unbuttoning the already half opened shirt.

John is looking at him so softly George thinks he can't know he's doing it. But then he supposes that he must see Paul like this all the time; losing control.

And something flares inside George, in the pit of his stomach and he thinks, 'A girl, I really need a fucking girl.'

They are making their way towards their bedroom door when John turns around to grab his glass from the table. When he looks up, he sees George instantly.

It feels stupid, stepping forward, but he doesn't know what else to do. Hopes it might look like he has only just got up, is only now seeing them for the first time.

"Alright?" George hears himself say, his voice full of false confidence. Paul now spots him too, moves closer to John's side, whether to hide his half naked and aroused self from prying eyes or simply from the need to be closer, George isn't sure. He still looks out of it.

John doesn't answer his casual question and although he does it in such a way that makes it clearly subconscious, he slips his hand inside Paul's until their fingers are locked over one another. 

George pretends not to see, keeps up the silent staring contest with eyes he knows must be struggling to see his outline in this dim light.

After a moment more of this pregnant game, John slowly smiles. It's like a wolf and George wants to run and batten down the hatches, but it's too late.

"Care to join us?" John asks. He raises his eyebrows but George knows this isn't really any kind of invitation.

Before he gets a chance to say anything, they both turn and disappear into the quiet of their bedroom, door shutting with a soft 'snick' behind them that wholly belies the previous moment's mood.

George doesn't stand still any longer, discards his glass and grabs the whiskey _bottle_ instead and goes back to bed.

In the dark he lies wondering what the answer to John's question really is.


End file.
